


It Starts Sometime Around Midnight

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Feyre was a Captive, Azriel falls in love with a painting, Case Fic, F/M, Lucien is a Painting, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Mentions of Suicide, The Illyrians are Special Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 15:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11649081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: The mutilation of the scar does not for a second detract from Azriel’s attraction. If anything, it calls to him louder than even that guarded half-smile, that hardened jaw. It is mirrored upon his arms and hands, though resting upon a far prettier frame.'____There are more important things to think about: How the media won't leave Feyre alone, how her captor - who also happens to be a serial killer - is still on the loose, and how he can't stop drinking.And yet all Azriel can think about is the redhead repeated in her paintings.





	It Starts Sometime Around Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avislightwing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avislightwing/gifts).



> This was written in a day, on no sleep and with food-poisoning, but I care not. I had to get it out. This AU is ruining my life. Please send help.  
> (May edit when #Healed)

There is a painting of a man with red hair.

Upon further inspection, there is a  _ wall _ of paintings of a man with red hair. No, a  _ room _ . Perhaps it is solely because he is being watched by this individual from all angles, but Azriel finds himself feeling overwhelmed. Consumed.

Captured.

“Who is this guy?” Rhys asks, circling the room. He too has donned a suit for the occasion of Feyre’s exhibition opening night. They all know that the eyes of the city will be upon them. Upon her. And they want to make her look good; The past few months have taught them that the media is rarely kind, even to those who deserve it.

“The only other person I ever saw in the house,” Feyre says, leaning against a wall and regarding her work with a look of release. “I will be so glad once this is over. Once I can show them something  _ new _ .”

“But these are so  _ important _ ,” Rhys argues, ignoring the paintings in favour of sweeping over to her, catching her hands and squeezing them tight. “This is- this is the most inspiring gallery in the world tonight, Feyre. This is proof of how strong you were. Of how, when faced with hopelessness, an eternity of darkness, you  _ created _ . You found beauty in even the ugliest of monstrosities. In a house that-”

“I never wanted to look at that house again,” she says, ever so softly, and yet it leaves his words quite dead. “And now I am trapped within it once again.”

“No,” Rhys says quietly. “You have taken what happened, and made it your own. You own it. And tonight,” he smiles with such warmth that even the distant Az feels gentle, “tonight you are inviting the world into that house to finally understand what it was to call it home. So they can finally understand what you endured.”

Kisses are happening and Az does not even have to try to not see them for once. Instead, his gaze remains where it has been locked for the past ten minutes.

“Who is he?” He asks, his voice hoarse. Throat tight. Stomach clenched. Muscles ticking with an electric call to touch that which is not real. A tragic beauty, so familiar to him that it should sicken him - as he does himself - and yet instead he wants to weep from the joy of looking upon it. Upon that one good eye, so mournful, so compassionate, that in one glance it could forgive the imperfect world of all its vulgarities. One eye, forever shut by the obstinate evidence that it has already witnessed them up close.

The mutilation of the scar does not for a second detract from Azriel’s attraction. If anything, it calls to him louder than even that guarded half-smile, that hardened jaw. It is mirrored upon his arms and hands, though resting upon a far prettier frame.

“I don’t know,” Feyre answers, closer now, her voice near his shoulder. She looks with him. “I never did. He came and went, but I think he feared Tamlin as much as me. Never stayed in the room with me once he arrived. And when I asked him to escape with me… said he couldn’t. Insisted he didn’t have a choice. I think he felt he owed him something. Although what anyone could have owed Tamlin, I don’t know.”

Rhys, disinterested in the redhead, slouches into the next room, calling through. “You always have a choice.”

Az’s skin itches. He is not so sure that that is always true.

 

***

 

The host smiles forcedly, recrosses her ankles, and rests a hand upon Feyre’s knee. It doesn’t look so bad on camera, in fact, it looks rather genuine. Feyre mimics the smile.

Thank god Rhys’s cousin is an actor. Thank god she was such a good coach. Thank god the vultures haven’t ripped The Cursebreaker to shreds anymore than they have constantly, repeatedly tried to. Rhys would have struggled to take it.

Azriel wouldn’t have endured it at all. There’d be broken limbs and noses to spare amongst the camera crew and TV personalities, enough to hide whatever they dared do to Feyre. He loves her like a sister, yes, but she is a victim and a survivor. All but one of those must be protected at all costs.

“So.” The host leans in a softens her voice. She must have had a good coach too. “We all know the story. About The Beast who kept you locked up for two whole years. The man who has kept and killed so many before you. About how  _ you _ were the one that got away. But Feyre, sweetheart, what I want to know is: What happened in those two years? What did he make you  _ do _ ?”

Az could murder her then and there if he weren’t fenced back behind the audience railing. Even stunning, talented Feyre blanches, stuttering. With an awkward grimace she says, “Um. I’m not sure answering that would- would be allowed on television.”

“Oh don’t worry honey,” The host says without batting an eyelid. She sits up once it becomes obvious this won’t be used on tape, fixes her hair, and bats a hand in dismissal. “We’ll be way past the watershed for this. And we’ll cut all the bits that we can’t use. And for the preview. You just tell us everything you can,” she shoots her a sympathetic smile that makes Az’s stomach curl, “and we’ll do the rest, don’t you worry.”

“But Feyre, sweetheart,” she repeats, once she has resumed her pose, hand on knee. “What I want to know is this: What happened in those two years? What did he make you  _ do? _ ”

Although it is a mess of stammers and overdrawn pauses, Feyre’s performance is admirable. The crowd applauds her at the end. Afterwards, several young women come up to hug her. They tell her she is an inspiration to all women, a survivor for the generations. They ask her to sign their copies of the exhibition leaflet.

In black sharpie, Feyre signs over that scarred face. The red hair.

Azriel picks up one they dropped, at the end, when they’ve all cleared out and the crew are packing up. He looks at it for a moment, folds it. Puts it in his pocket.

He wonders who that man is all the way back home, where he downs half a bottle of whiskey and goes over the case notes for the fifth time that day. Tells himself it’s so he can find Tamlin.

“Where are you?” He asks the mountains of photos, witness statements, forensic notes. Thumbs the leaflet in his pocket. “Where did you go?”

 

***

 

To: princeofnight@gmail.com

From: warrantforyourpants@gmail.com

Subject: Pussy Patrol

Yo Batman,

We gotta change our code title for these emails R, makes me feel like I’m Trump or some shit. I mean I know that’s the point to keep the Fey-bae away buuuuut like. Tarq keeps fucking skim reading my phone notifications - force of habit after that fucking media harassment blow-up -  and thinks I’m ACTUALLY a pig. (plz stop cock blocking me bro. U know he activist as balls which is SUPER HOT but like. Means when we pretend to be dicks, he takes away his dick. I need the dick.)

Wait fuck, ok, serious email. Like serious serious.

I know Feyre reads Cosmo and so, Nesta was trying out some of the tricks from it one me last night and- look, point is there’s an article in there about Feyre. You know, one of the bad ones. Possibly the worst one yet. Dude, is2g it’s getting real hard not to abuse my power and just crash into their house. Arrest them for dickery.

It’s the May issue. Page 42. U know the drill. And don’t worry, the back doesn’t have any AMAZING sex tips u gonna miss out on. (on that note, read page 16. #Blessed)

PS I’ll b looking into the wigs lead tomorrow.

Love you loads Batman,

Cass

 

***

_ \- excerpt from Cosmo Magazine, May Edition _

'Would YOU Sleep With Your Federal Protection?

Sure girls, we ALL love a man in uniform, and a man whose literal job is to protect and avenge us? Sounds SUPER HOT. But would you really do it in real life. Feyre Archeron, the woman rocketing to fame in the art world, whose sisters are now domineering the fashion industry (all on the back of her  _ alleged _ kidnapping) is now officially engaged to the man in charge of her case, Detective Inspector Rhysand Knight.

All I’m saying is it seems awfully convenient for the both of them. After Feyre supposedly escaped from the house, she immediately fell into the arms of DI Knight, and with evidence for the supposed abuse she suffered highly inconclusive, apparently due to it ‘not being that kind of abuse’, she-'

Rhysand didn’t read the rest of it. He shouldn’t have read any of it. But part of him felt obligated to know what he had inflicted upon Feyre. Of what his inability to keep his feelings to himself had caused her to suffer.

 

***

 

Az flicked the channel over. His phone had just beeped, displaying the message:

‘It’s on

It’s fucking awful

LU

If u need company tonight, come round, k? Tarq + Nesta @ Paris Fashion Week

Lads night in, right?

Will need hugs + Pizza after this

xx

SB’

Even Cassian willingly using his nickname of SB - Spring’s Bride - wasn’t enough to make Az laugh right now. Not as he watched the interview.

“He… he would make me… dress up. He’d make me wear this wig, speak in certain ways. It was strange, I had to be witty and sharp, but always nice to him. If I said anything to wound his pride… he’d explode.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“Sometimes. He’d throw things, shove me about a bit. But it was the threat of violence that was the worst. Constantly being in fear. He was so strong, so big. And… I mean, it was slow at first. He wasn’t cruel to begin with. Just… I thought he was just  _ passionate _ . But I realised, once I asked to leave and he  _ locked the door _ … He wasn’t the man I’d thought he was.”

“Why do you think he didn’t kill you as quickly as the others?”

“I… I don’t know. I… loved him at first. And I played his games. I wore the wig. I dressed as he wanted me to. And for a year, I never suspected that not being allowed to leave the house was strange. He’d told me- convinced me that those my family owed debt to were looking to kill me. That he’d betrayed them for me. But… I soon learned he’d been  _ economical  _ with the truth, so to speak.”

“Why the wig and clothes and speech you think?”

“I don’t know. I think he did it to all of them. All the others were- found, dressed like that.”

“Did you like it?”

“Did I- I-“

Azriel clicks it off. Tosses the remote aside. ‘I’m fine. See you tomorrow’ he texts Cassian, before opening the second wine bottle and storming off into the rainstorm, front door unlocked and left ajar.

 

***

 

“What happened to your hand?” Cassian asks, there the next morning with doughnuts for breakfast. He finds Azriel unconscious on his sofa, bleeding, cuddling bottle number three. Azriel doesn’t answer, but does let him bandage the gash across his palm.

“So you weren’t fine.”

“Relatively,” Azriel says slowly. “I was fine. I’ve been worse.”

Cass just looks at him. The sympathy in those crinkled eyes used to drive Azriel insane, especially since it came from someone with such a handsome, ‘privileged jock’ kind of face. But by now he’s tasted Cass’s shadows, when they’ve both been at the bottom of a bottle and he learned he was not the only one who collected painkillers.

“Just in case,” Cass had told him, and he’d understood and forgiven him for every look of empathy he’d ever shone his way.

They don’t discuss it, because they have done so a thousand times before. Instead they both lie on the sofa and Azriel nestles into Cassian’s arm, nuzzling his shoulder because he’s still drunk and Cass always smells like warm cinnamon.

“Why are Feyre’s flyers all over your apartment?”

Az looks blearily over at the redhead scattered all over his living room floor. “I’m trying to find him.”

“…Why  _ him _ ?”

“I don’t know,” Az says, which is half true, because they’re no logic to it. Just a need. Just an empty obsession that drags him out of bed in the morning. “He just… called to me when I needed him.”

Cass nods in understanding. Kisses the top of his head. “I hope you never find him.” Az closes his eyes and dozes on that broad chest, legs tucked up against his friend’s’ softer stomach.

“I hope so too.”

 

***

 

“Oh my god,” Feyre whispers one night, as she passes away the insomnia browsing the internet on her laptop. Az, Rhys, and Amren all sit in a circle on the floor. They are half planning weddings, half solving cases. No longer Feyre’s; That one has been marked as unsolved and closed. They don’t talk about that fact.

“What is it, love?” Rhys mumbles, thumbing through venue options.

“It's been sold.”

“What is?”

“The house.”

They all stop what they’re doing. In five minutes, Feyre is sobbing uncontrollably in the bedroom, Rhys is comforting her through the episode, and Amren is out having a cigarette.

Az is stuck standing by the laptop, staring at the screen. Sits down. Types in Feyre’s password.

The house she was kept in flashes upon the screen. She’s on AirBnB and there’s the house, the house  _ he _ was in. And Az’s brain is so, so stupid.

He gets up and checks on Feyre; she’s silent now, but still shaking. Amren’s car has gone. She says this shit doesn’t affect her, but Az would have left by now too and started drinking were it not for the site.

He returns with his credit card. Plugs in the numbers. Waits.

When Feyre returns, the laptop is off and her favourite movie West Side Story is playing on the TV. Az ensures they’re settled on the sofa with hot beverages before he leaves. Checks his emails.

Confirms his booking in The Cursed House.

 

***

 

“Az, you know you legally can’t keep this crap in your house.”

“They’re just photocopies.”

“Okay if it wasn’t illegal before-“

“Like you don’t bend the rules, Rhys.”

“The case is closed, Az.”

Rhysand does not care that the case is closed; Az knows this. He is well aware that Rhys has the  _ actual _ files in boxes at his house, slacking on the filing paperwork because he cannot let Feyre’s abuser just go free like that.

The only reason he is at Az’s house is because he has not left it in a week and has not answered his phone for two.

Thing is, he  _ has _ to solve it before he goes there. He has to know who the redhead is.

“Is this- Jahannam Az, is this your own research? There’s seven crates of the stuff.”

“The agency  _ never _ did enough research into the victims and you know it. Something is off about how this case was handled. Every lead we’ve had, coincidence has killed.”

“Have you found out anything?”

Rhys’ pretence at not caring about the case is shattered instantly. Az smirks, though his body whines; He has not slept in three days.

“Yes. The first victim  _ was  _ allowed outside. And Feyre was not the longest lasting captive. He was. Four years.”

“…Why were we told only one?”

“Because he didn’t live in the house until the last year.”

Rhys is supposed to be dragging him into the office. He has Az’s spare uniform clenched in his hand.

Chucking it aside, he joins him on the floor. “Hand that over,” he says, taking a swig of the coffee he’d brought over as bribery. “I need to look at this.”

 

***

 

The house is… nice. Quaint, even.

It’s a cottage by the sea, positioned on a cliffside and surrounded by so much foliage that even though it’s winter, Az feels like he’s stuck in perpetual spring. Even the host feels sunny and charming; She hides well the fact that she bought  _ the _ Cursed House. Lucky for her the press were never allowed to release the location to the public.

She helps him settle in, asks if he needs anything, and assures him he can call if he needs anything. It’s only for one night, but she makes a real effort. It’s a shame that Az is too numb inside to appreciate it.

He spends the first hour drifting. Room to room, he trails and inspects  _ everything _ . Of course, he has seen the house already; they all have. The investigation was not quite that limited, even if day by day he and Rhys dig up more and more dirt that seems to have been hidden from them.

Before though, these walls were just walls. Hateful walls that had kept Feyre trapped, but he’d cared more about Tamlin then. Now they are the paint and wood and brick that the redhead touched. Leaned against. Breathed upon. Left scratches and marks and bits of dust across; A love letter to the future he did not know he was writing. Did not know someone would one day read.

Az wonders if the man cares about love. If he wants to find it. If he is that sort of man. In his mind, Az has constructed an entire personality for his mystery target, and yet now that he stands where he once stood, everything feels out of place, disconnected.

Was he the sort of man to punch walls, or paint them? Did he clean them? Let them grow grimy with mud and dirt? Did Tamlin ever fuck him up against the wallpaper?

It is a question that has been stewing within the seat of his stomach for some time now: Were they lovers? Az could not imagine being around a man with an eye, a face, a scar like that without falling in love. As Feyre painted her collection, did they linger against one another’s bodies in the dark, seeking salvation in the skin of the other? Did they feel the strangling, unshakeable connection he feels to the redhead for one another? Was this utter madness requited?

He sits and thinks and questions well into the early hours of the morning, when at last he goes to sleep in the guest bedroom. He recognises it as the room Feyre was kept in, and blames the alcohol when he regurgitates the microwave dinner in the toilet. Passing out on the bed rather than the bathroom is a real achievement.

“Good morning,” an impossible voice says when he awakens.

The redhead sits on his bed and smiles at him. “I wondered if any of you would come back now that she’s renting this place out. Any of you agents, I mean.”

“I had to,” Az answers, shocked into honesty.

“I know,” the impossible man answers. He smiles. “I’ve been watching you. All of you. I wanted to meet you, to say thank you. So thank you, for looking after Feyre.”

Az has nothing to say, so there’s no words to cut off when the man leans over and kisses him. The only sound is that of the lapping waves below, and the song of the early birds. A whimper. Because Az has never fallen in love like this before.

And when he opens his eyes, lips cold and shaking, he is alone once more.

 

***

 

“They’re his smoke and mirrors,” Rhys mumbles to himself, panning through the victim profiles. They all look similar, when they have the wigs on. So he’s got a type. But which  _ one _ is  _ the  _ one?”

“Feyre?” Az suggests. “She was the one he took longest to kill. Once he got them in the house.”

“Right, right. And the first one, the delay is natural. Taking time to prepare, to summon the courage.”

Rubbing his temples, Az for once  _ wants _ to go back to sleep. His new addiction – coffee’s replacement – is reliving one single dream over and over again. A memory on loop; A good morning kiss he will never forget, and never, ever tell anyone. Not even Rhys.

“We need to find what’s different.  _ Something _ has to give it away. Before he does this again to someone else.”

“Maybe he already has. We only found the others because Feyre knew where they’d been buried.”

“Yeah.”

Az is nodding and nodding and then he freezes. “Buried.” He wonders if this is what a heart attack feels like. His muscles cannot move fast enough as he scrambles for the files documenting the upheaval of the graves. “Buried. Buried, they were all buried.”

“Yes, they were all buried,” Rhys agrees slowly, looking at Az and clearly wondering if giving him two weeks off work to do  _ this _ was a good idea for his mental health or the final straw that broke the back of his psyche.

“They were all buried. Six of them behind the greenhouse. One to the side of it because he ran out of room.”

“Right,” Rhys agrees, and then his frown fades into stupor.

“The first was buried by the  _ house _ . I mean, it doesn’t  _ look _ like it when you look at all the graves. His is right next to the house. Then Seven’s was behind his. But the others, he started away from that,  _ behind _ the greenhouse, like he was ashamed of them. Seven he was forced to bring closer. But One. One was kept close straight away.”

“That’s the one,” Rhysand realises aloud. “That’s the murder he’s repeating. That’s the one he can’t let go of.”

 

***

 

They examine the autopsy report ten times over. Then Rhys is called away by Feyre to come to bed, but Az stays on his living room sofa, reading and rereading. It’s the same as all the other victims; Stabbed through the head, through then right eye-socket, then the face removed and presumably kept on his person as a trophy.

Wig like all the others. Completely bald. Completely sh-

He goes back. Checks again. Scrutinises the photographs.

Of course. It had been noted on the pathologist’s file that the first victim had suffered from liver cancer, and had subsequently been naturally bald from chemotherapy. No one had batted an eyelash at this fact- two other victims had been naturally bald as well. With one a middle aged man and one a woman also suffering from cancer, no one had seen the first as strange.

But if he was the victim all others were replicas of, then why the wigs? Why did all of the victims wear identical wigs, unless that had been the wig worn naturally by the first victim, a cancer patient undergoing chemotherapy?

 

***

 

Without thinking, Az rushes up to the master bedroom to let Rhys know what he’s deduced. Barges through the door, as if he really did forget what Feyre and Rhysand do  _ a lot _ of.

Yet they’re not fucking. Feyre is before him where he sits upon the bed, kneeling on the floor. She is dressed in clothes not her own – a shirt, a waistcoat, high-waisted brown trousers – and a wig, and he is hugging her. Feyre is crying, loudly, and for a minute Az thinks fuck. It was Rhys all along. No wonder this case was so corrupted.

But the tears mean he wasn’t noticed, and Rhys asks, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I need to,” Feyre answers. “I need to do this with you. It’s the only way to make it okay.”

“And- from behind?” She nods.

“It’s how he always did it.”

“Okay.”

Az’s brain catches up, and then it leaps ahead. Her wig is beautiful, made from real human hair, cascading down to the small of her back. As red as the setting sun.

 

***

 

His return to The Cursed House is another secret one. He hurries Mrs. Alis through the welcome and quickly ushers her away, assuring her he will be fine. It is make somewhat tricky by the fact that he is white as a sheet, shaking, and thin as a rake. He has not eat properly since he booked the stay three weeks ago.

Once she is safely down the drive, he bounds up the staircase, sweating profusely. Bursts into the bedroom. Cries out like an infant child when the man is there, perched neatly on the edge of the bed.

“You look awful, Agent Azriel,” the man says with a sigh. “I wish I could have  _ made _ you eat, but I have no power outside of this house.”

There is nothing Az knows to say. He just stares, and after a while, walks forwards. “I know who you are.”

“Yes, I thought you might. You and Rhysand have done an excellent job. I’m sure your Cassian will be arresting Tamlin in no time, the rate you’re working at.”

“But you’re-”

“What I care about is you finding him, and stopping him before he hurts anyone else.”

Az doesn’t know what to do. He has fallen helplessly in love with this man and now… He sinks down on the bed beside him, and stares at the floor. “You’re dead,” he says. Because it is true.

“Yes. My physical body has decayed rather disgustingly, I must say,” the man drawls. He holds out his hand. “Lucien, by the way.”

“I know.”

“Can a dead man not introduce himself?”

Az actually laughs. He doesn’t remember the last time he did that, didn’t even know his body remembered how. A hundred questions beg to be asked, like what  _ is _ Lucien, how is this possible, but in their rush to his lips they crush one another to silence. So he sits. And stares, as if Lucien was just a painting. A painting who smirks in response, seeming to find his astonishment most amusing.

“Azriel,” he says softly, “Can I kiss you again?”

 

***

 

Az has stopped thinking by the time he is tangled in bedsheets. When he has Lucien’s warm body flush beneath him, quivering and shivering and panting in response to his curious touch. The back of his mind remarks on how he shouldn’t be able to feel this, that if Lucien was a ghost then the films got it all wrong, but his cock and heart and mouth care about far more important things. Like how best to make a dead man come.

Fucking him is both rough and desperate, and so gentle and bittersweet he is not sure if he is crying from how tight he is, or from how his heart is possibly breaking. Because he knows this can happen only once. He does not know how he knows this, yet he is more certain of that than anything else in the world.

Lucien, red hair plastered to the sweat on his face, cheeks blotched with arousal, is more beautiful than any painting. More beautiful than anything Az will ever see again. That he must lose this after only one night ruins him.

The only way to make up for it is to kiss and touch and pleasure Lucien until every monstrous thing he’s suffered is balanced by ecstasy and orgasms.

“I shouldn’t be in love with you,” Az says, as they lie exhausted on the bed together. “I don’t even know you. Or who you were. Or are. Or-”

“You are in love with a very romantic version of me,” Lucien interrupts, stroking his cheek. “And now that I’m dead, there are worse things than to be romanticised and worshipped. Especially when it helps you to find my killer.”

Az bites down on the inside of his cheek. He knows the answer, but- “Can you tell me where he is?”

“No,” Lucien says softly. “I can’t help you find him. It is him who is keeping me bound to this plane. His obsession with me. His regret.”

“He regrets it?” Az says dryly. “Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he keeps repeating it on others.”

“I was an accident.” Lucien smiles, and if Az’s heart wasn’t already broken it’d crumble again. “A fight turned ugly. I don’t think he ever  _ planned _ to kill me. But he did. And now we’re here. Watching him relieve the same toxic relationship over and over again.”

“Are you real?” Az asks. Because he has to know. Even if he doesn’t want to.

“You make me real. I am here because you need me to be. As I have been here for every victim and survivor to have ever set foot in this house. That is my purpose here. Tamlin’s regret means I remain to aid those who have been hurt. The moment you set foot in this house, I manifested. I am not the Lucien Feyre knew, or the Lucien Tamlin knew. I am the version you created.”

Az swallows. “In my version…” He does not want to ask it, but he cannot stop himself. “Do you love me?” Lucien laughs.

“I don’t think you believe you’re deserving. But this is my version of me too. And I like how you paint me. How you protect Feyre, and how you  _ keep going _ . So yes, Azriel,” he leans in, presses lips to lips, “I love you.”

 

***

 

They catch Tamlin a month later. As they’d suspected, it turns out he was a senior member of the board, and once they knew that, they uncovered a whole trail of corruption and poison. Director Helion gave them full authority to interrogate those involved, and had those responsible for the prevention of justice dismissed and punished appropriately. It is, for the history books, a happy ending.

The day after the court hearing, Azriel returns to the house, this time with Feyre and Rhysand in tow.

“It feels… different than I remember,” Feyre says as they stand in the kitchen, none of them sure how to behave here. “Less… alive. I know it sounds silly, but I always felt like the house itself had some kind of power over me. Or over Tamlin. I’m not sure. Now it’s… quiet. It’s nice.”

“Thank you, Azriel,” Rhys says, catching his best friend’s hand. “For suggesting we come here.”

Looking between the pair of them, Az wonders if he should tell them. Instead, he smiles, and takes both their hands firmly in his. “Some demons need to be exorcised. And some ghosts need to be let go of. I imagine this place will be all the happier for letting go of everything that’s happened.”

“As will I,” Feyre agrees, hugging his side.

“As will we all,” Rhysand echos, hugging his other half. Az smirks.

“As will the ghosts.”

 


End file.
